Poetry Is

Poetry

In the grip of days  
when the heart feels  
like a wild thing,  
teetering on the edge  
of clawing itself  
free from my chest,  
something shifts,  
like the weight of love  
breaking ribs,  
pouring forth,  
desperate to taste  
the sweetness of those lips—  
Oh, how easily it forgets the cost,  
the time it took  
to mend from the wreckage,  
from honey to bitterness,  
those flavors now mingling.

Poetry,  
always a balm,  
cradling my raw edges  
when I want to rage against the sky  
for all that is unraveled,  
carrying my broken promises  
like badges of honor,  
holding me accountable  
to the injustices shouting  
inside my soul,  
telling me,  
it’s okay.  
It’s okay to roar.

With every line,  
I find solace in the violence of my past,  
the page a witness  
to the wounds that linger,  
the understanding  
that some pieces  
cannot be fixed,  
only released.  
And so, I let go.  
In the ink, I submerge,  
a saline for the scars  
etched deep in my heart,  
as words swirl,  
filling the empty spaces  
that once echoed with echoes.

In this sacred communion,  
I douse the flame of fury  
with metaphors that dance,  
alliteration forming bridges  
over troubled waters.  
Here, I breathe without fear,  
bold enough to seize the day,  
to open doors for voices  
silenced by shadows,  
to foster a place  
where suffering can be shared,  
where vulnerability becomes a birthright.

I become a lighthouse  
for the lost and wandering,  
the voice I searched for  
in childhood shadows,  
filling the void  
carved by heartbreak,  
where spirits lay shattered,  
muffled words  
lost in tears,  
the disconnected souls  
seeking solace.  
In poetry, I find home.  
And for this,  
I love it fiercely.